


Zep Writing Prompt Challenge 04 | Candles and Cake

by Tangerine_Page



Category: Led Zeppelin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:02:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23666575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tangerine_Page/pseuds/Tangerine_Page
Summary: Some more writing following a new photo prompt of a big old chocolate cake & candles taken in quite a darkened space..
Relationships: Jimmy Page/Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 22





	Zep Writing Prompt Challenge 04 | Candles and Cake

It was early in the morning as Jimmy carefully crept out of bed. The dawn was breaking across the dew soaked lawn, rays of bright spring sunlight refracted off the droplets, sending thousands of tiny rainbows dancing across the hazy green of the grass.

Jimmy padded downstairs in his bare feet, a thick woollen cardigan thrown over his bare chest and boxer shorts to stave off the chill of the house at that time of the day. His feet would probably become icicles.

He set the kettle onto the stove, gently humming as he did so, finding a mug, his favourite mug, a mug that you had made for him during a pottery class you took together as one of your early dates. He set it on the counter top and dropped a tea bag into it before heading into the pantry to collect the milk and to check on the surprise. He lifted a corner of the tea towel that had been hiding his attempt at home baking, the candles were slightly bending at odd angles due to the weight of the cloth. The wonky candles irked Jimmy and he threw the cloth to one side and proceeded to straighten each in turn, his long fingers dancing between the forest of colourful stems. Once he was satisfied he returned to the whistling kettle, milk bottle in hand.

Jimmy splashed the boiling water into the mug, setting the tea bag dancing as it began to leach its colour and infuse its scent into the clear hot liquid. The perfume of earl grey wafted into Jimmy’s nostrils and he counted under his breath, he knew the time that it took to make the perfect cup of tea. He counted as he stirred the tea bag clockwise, anti clockwise, clockwise, anti clockwise, before gently squeezing and removing it from the cup. He took a larger spoon from the draw and poured the milk until its meniscus threatened to overspill before eventually unleashing the creamy liquid into the cup below. He watched as the white swirled into grey and the grey became a warmer tone taking the tea from incredibly floral and refined to something more comforting and akin to home. He wasn’t opposed to drinking it black on occasion, with a slice of lemon, but the milk made him think of his childhood and his mother. His mother would make him sweet milky tea when he came home from school upset, usually because his guitar had been confiscated. He had never understood as a child why things that bought such pleasure were forbidden.

Jimmy took the gently steaming mug through the house and into the guitar room. It was a beautiful room, carpeted, with full height French windows that overlooked the lawn. Opposite the windows stood a deep old fireplace that had been fitted with a log burner to keep the room cosy on winter evenings, so that Jimmy could compose long into the night. His guitars sat in racks around the room and a couple were mounted on the walls. His touring guitars were still in their cases as he hadn’t yet played them since returning from their latest trip. Amplifiers were stacked to one end of the room and an antique writing desk was littered with sheet music and basic recording equipment. Jimmy was hoping to make a full home studio, but time had slipped away from him so quickly during that past year. Plumpton was beginning to feel like home, but he really only felt truly comfortable in a few places, the guitar room being one of them, as he was surrounded by his guitars, books and music.

Setting his tea on the desk atop a pile of hand penned music with, for the first time, an attempt at accompanying lyrics scratched beneath rudimentary chord progressions. It was the tune that he had been humming as he set the kettle to boil, it was a tune that had come to him yesterday afternoon, it was a tune and a story that he felt compelled to write down. There it lay, committed to paper, with his old fountain pen dipped hurriedly in the ink pot, droplets blotting across the page. He had written it with his acoustic guitar in his lap, hunched over its body, one hand fingering the chords, the other translating the music to the pre-printed stave.

Jimmy was tempted to pick up the acoustic and continue to make progress on the piece, but he reminded himself why he was in here and managed to tear himself from the melody. He walked over to the windows that were lined with floor length curtains made from the richest material, adorned and embroidered with golden birds, flowers, leaves and intricate stems, set against the deep red background of the heavy cloth. He pulled the curtain aside and pulled out a guitar that he had been hiding there. It wasn’t from his collection, it was new to him, he had found it whilst on tour in the States, when he had been allowed to venture to the guitar store on his day off. The others had headed to the beach, to find a bar, to relax, to do something other than music. But Jimmy was searching for something special.

Sitting back at the desk, he took a dust cloth from the drawer and setting the guitar on his lap he began to gently clean and buff the instrument. The cloth was already infused with the soft sweet scent of beeswax, which he worked into the wood grain, wiping away the grease and imprints of its past owners. Jimmy had already plugged the guitar into one of his amplifiers when he first stole the instrument into the house. He had checked the tone, the action of the strings the set up of the bridge and when he switched between the pickups he had noticed a buzzing sound. Jimmy had taken the pickups apart like a master surgeon, carefully re-soldering the connections, checking the switching through the amp, before putting it all back together, cleaning up the fretboard and restringing the neck. He had been so engrossed in his work that he hadn’t realised how late it had become and he nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard you return to the house, flicking on light switches, calling his name as you wandered through the dark hallway, wondering where on earth he had gotten to. Jimmy had quickly hidden the guitar behind the curtain and was standing awkwardly in front of the desk, a single work lamp lit and small intricate tools scattered across the surface when you eventually found him in the guitar room.

Smiling at him he rushed forward to greet you, wrapping you in a hug and pulling you away from the desk in a bid to distract you from what he had been doing.

“You look like you’ve been up to no good Mr Page,” you said fondling his curls and looking up into his deep green eyes.

“I’m always up to no good,” he smirked, before taking you to the sofa beside the fire place and administering a full catalogue of distractions upon your unsuspecting body.

Jimmy smiled to himself, recalling the pleasure of that event, making him feel like he should hurry up his current process and get back upstairs to give you your birthday treats. Once he was happy with the shine on the maple top and that the pick guard was free from anyone else’s fingerprints, he slipped the guitar into a spare gig bag and tied a bow around the neck.

Jimmy’s tea had gone cold, or rather past the point of the perfect temperature and he no longer cared for it. Taking the mug with the guitar hoisted onto his shoulder he went back to the kitchen to make another round, this time with two mugs, fresh mugs from the cupboard as the first mug was left to go properly cold in the sink. Jimmy got out the silver tea tray that he couldn’t ever recall using and set the mugs to one side of it. Retrieving the cake from the pantry he set this onto the remaining space on the tray and taking a lighter from his cardigan pocket he carefully lit the candles. 

Jimmy picked up the tray and walked carefully back into the hall and mounted the stairs that lead to your shared bedroom. The cake plate chinked persistently against the mugs, the tea sloshing dangerously close to overflowing as they all jostled for position on the tray. The gig bag was slipping down his shoulder as he had only slung one strap over his back. Slowly and carefully and in a very contorted position Jimmy made it up the stairs and pushed open the door to the semi darkened room. Sunlight was beginning to creep through the cracks in the curtain and a single beam fell across your cheek as you lay sleeping. Jimmy set the tea tray at the end of the bed and took a moment to watch you as you smiled into whatever sweet dream you were having.

Taking the gig back from his shoulder he lay that too at the end of the bed before getting back in beside you careful not to set fire to the bed covers or to touch your warm body with his icy feet. Jimmy stroked your hair back from your face and began to softly sing,

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you..”

You opened your eyes to the sound of Jimmy’s sweet voice singing to you. You loved it when he sang, even though you knew he hated his own voice, but then by this token, you knew that his songs were only ever for you. Jimmy’s face filled your vision as his lips closed over yours in a morning greeting.

“Happy birthday darling,” he said, gently rubbing sleep from the corner of your eye.

“Jimmy!” You said attempting to sit up. “Thank you.”

“Careful love, there are a few things that you won’t want to upset at the end of the bed.”

Propping yourself onto your elbow you catch sight of the flickering flames dancing above what looked to be a homemade cake and a couple of cups of tea.

“Oh my goodness Jimmy,” you exclaim sitting up slowly against the pillows taking the cup of tea from his hands. “Did you make that?!”

“Yes!” Jimmy said proudly, sliding the tea tray up the bed and lifting the cake so that the cluster of candle lights danced against his smile, setting his green eyes glittering. “Make a wish, I think the wax is starting to drip.”

Laughing lightly you considered your wish, the same one you had always made from the minute you had set eyes on James Page. You closed your eyes, holding back your hair and blew onto the flames, your wish expelled in that breath, but forever held closely in your heart.

“What did you wish?” Jimmy asked setting the cake back down and slinking into you whilst also sipping at his tea cup.

“I can’t tell you that!” You reply. “The magic won’t come true.”

“My darling, I can make any magic you wish to come true, all you have to do is ask,” he said looking deeply into your eyes before kissing you with his perfumed mouth that tasted like flowers of earl grey.

You smile into his lips, thinking how blissfully happy he makes you and Jimmy pulls away.

“What are you laughing at?” He asks, tapping you lightly on the nose, which he always does when he thinks you are being cheeky.

“Nothing! I’m.. just.. you make me so happy.”

Jimmy grinned at your admission. “Oh I can make you a lot more happy,” he said deviously. “But first I have a gift for you to open.”

“Oh?” You ask, your eyes scanning the bed and you notice a dark lump nestled between the folds of the quilted throw. “Jimmy you didn’t need to get me anything!”

Jimmy threw you a look with a raised eyebrow as he wandered over to the window to open the curtains. The guitar really needed full daylight for its big reveal. Jimmy took the gig bag and placed it onto your lap, setting your teacup aside and kissing you softly on the forehead.

“I know I didn’t have to buy you anything, but I wanted to buy you something. I don’t think you realise sometimes just how much you mean to me,” he said perching next to you on the bed, possibly more excited than you were to open the gift. He nudged the package towards you and laughing at his almost puppy like impatience you took hold of the silky bow and began to untie it.

As you unzipped the case, the scent of fresh beeswax floated out from the bag, you closed your eyes inhaling the scent. It reminded you of fields of lavender, the sound of bees buzzing between the blooms to collect their sweet nectar and the feeling of warmth from the sun on your skin. Jimmy watched you, lost in memory and he smiled. You reached inside the bag to retrieve the heavenly perfumed instrument and as you grasped the neck the warmth from your fingers awoke the lemon oil, evoking deep tangy citrus. Combined with the memories of lavender and honey from the beeswax and the sunlight beaming through the windows you almost felt as though Jimmy had transported you to the south of France. Though for all the glory of its scent the delicate notes were no match for the beauty of the guitar as you finally set eyes upon it. 

The tones of the polished instrument were bursting with the oranges and yellows of an entire grove of tangerines and lemons, as their hues were stained intensely into the impossible grain of the maple. An intricately carved f-hole was cut into the convex top to form a semi hollow chamber with the most slender of bindings. The rosewood fretboard was dark in comparison to the vivid hues below the neck and the contrast of the mother-of-pearl inlays reminded you of the contrast between Jimmy’s ebony curls as they sat against his oh-so-pale, but pearlescent cheeks. As you ran your fingertips over the instrument, lost in its aroma and feasting on its intricacies you had almost forgotten where you were. The sound of Jimmy’s chuckle as he watched your enraptured delight pulled you from your own little world and you raised your eyes to look up at your perfect man.

“So you like it then?” He smirked, delighted that he had chosen so well.

“Like it? Jimmy its the most beautiful thing I have ever seen! Thank you.”

Jimmy took the guitar from your hands and leant it gently against the bedside table, keeping eye contact with you as he did so.

“Well I disagree,” he replied, moving closer to you until his bare chest was pressed up against your cotton pyjamas. “I think you are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

And with that he took you with his lips and his fingers, his eyes and his smile, his whispers and his murmurs, making you feel every bit the goddess that he believed you to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Reading it back - you can just replace ‘goddess’ with ‘god’ right at the end if that makes it better for you & hey presto it becomes a Jimbert & you are in fact Robert ;)


End file.
